


Such Selfish Prayers

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Altar Sex, Armor Kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the chapel embrace scene, fresh on the heels of Cullen being concerned for Trevelyan's safety in the upcoming final battle. A one-shot in which our poor Commander having a crisis of faith gets freaky in the chantry. Skip the second chapter if you're only here for the fluffy bits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stronger When You Hold Him

_“And I must send you to him,”_ the words resonated in the still air.

Alone in the chapel, the world could end around them (and it very well _could_ end) and completely escape the lovers’ notice. Trevelyan pushes her face into the soft feathers of his mantle, seeking out the warmth of him buried within. Feathers brush and tickle against her cheek as she buries her face in his shoulder.

Cullen responds in kind, pulling her deeper into the embrace, unwilling to relinquish his hold. He holds her to him in the fading light of the day, filtering through in shafts illuminating the dust and adding an ethereal glow to the candle. A hand moves to the back of her head, fingers absently tracing patterns in her braids. She could read him well enough by now to know when he was comfortable, stable. Quiet.

He was a new man, the things he’d confided to her about his past opinions of mages came as a confession fraught with guilt, but she had held him through it, soothed his conscience. He was a new man with her, free of Lyrium, finding his redemption in their cause. He was a new man, yes, but that would be too much for him, she knew. She could not lose him. 

She is afraid too, not just of the thought of everything she must face before the end – whatever end was in store of them, given the odds – but afraid of losing this. The unknown nature of this otherworldly anchor made anything possible, could anyone really know what its destruction may mean for her? Even if she were to somehow succeed at the cost of her own life, it would crush him. Cole’s words echoed in her head: stronger when you hold him.

In search of his skin, the Inquisitor nuzzles closer, soft lips grazing his ear on her quest. She is the only one the Commander forgets himself with; a soft sigh reserved only for her escapes his lips as he relaxes into her. Always so comfortable in each other’s arms, her gestures thus far had been reflexive, born of a desire to never let this moment go. But so close to his skin, smelling of cedar, fur and familiarity, her intentions rapidly lose their purity. Seizing the opportunity presented to her, she plants a quick kiss at her favourite defined crook of his jaw. The sound that escapes him was anticipated to be quiet or a sigh at best but comes out much louder than expected. When the low but indisputable moan rumbles in his chest, she can feel his posture begin to correct as the Templar training surfaces.

Everyone had long since retired to the kitchens for a hearty meal. She’s the least bit worried, but she recognizes the knee-jerk reaction to his perceived impropriety with her. Sneaking a peek at his face, his eyes are cast to the side, embarrassed and a mouth quirked in concern. His eyes are still so far away, weighed down by his concern for her safety. This will not be their last time together, she will come back, but all the same it would be a shame to not take advantage of every opportunity she has alone with him.

Testing his Templar resolve, she lands another kiss in the same spot, continuing the trail upwards. His bristles rasp lightly at her lips but the soft dusting of blonde hair does little more than tickle. He clears his throat to say something but thinks better of it when her peppered kisses reach the corner of his mouth, smoothing the tip of her tongue flat against the rigid line of his scar. Some sense of propriety was lost then as he turned to capture her lips with his, it is his turn to elicit a sigh from his Lady that echoes into his mouth upon hers. The gentle touch behind her head had since become a grip entwined with a sense of urgency.

“Commander,” was her soft mantra each time the kiss broke. A whispered word that spurred and emboldened his actions, urging on the soft press of his lips trailing down her own neck. 

Seeing her efforts rewarded, Trevelyan was only dimly aware of the fact that they had been moving at all, but engrossed in a moment of unbridled passion, neither had apparently realized exactly quite how much. That is, until former Templar Knight-Captain – current Commander of the armies of the faithful – backed her square into the statue of Andraste. The noise that escaped the Inquistor was somewhere between the arousal of someone having been backed authoritatively against a wall in the throes of passion and the sound of someone having a not insignificant amount of air compressed from their lungs by a man in plate armor. 

Not the _she_ particularly minded.

_He_ was understandably mortified.

“I’m sorry-” he stammered, almost hoarse “that was just, I was…” 

His arms had too suddenly gone from holding her to holding her shoulders as if checking her for injury. When he was sufficiently satisfied he hadn’t crushed her, he looked up, noting for the first time where they were in a very real way. As if to punctuate his embarrassment, the final rays of the setting sun behind the statue illuminated the stone avatar of their Maker in a most holy way. Trevelyan could almost hear the chant of light in the softly glowing beams. Or was that Mother Giselle in the chantry garden? Frankly, she didn’t care, she wished he wouldn’t either.

“Oh Maker…” He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in his usual awkward fashion.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Cullen.” She said suggestively, raising a hand to caress his face, rubbing the pad of her thumb in small comforting circles by his ear. His expression made it very clear she was making this a difficult decision for him and he verbalized as much, something to the extent of “We shouldn’t be here, it’s the Chantry,” a mumble about “how it would be wrong…” as he pulled her closer. The excuses were seemingly endless but lacking in conviction as his hands made their way back to her waist and his face sought to bury itself in the sweetness of her neck once more. 

“Anyone could walk-in –“

“But I want to,” was his last flimsy attempt before his lips sought hers once more, with renewed but clearly restrained eagerness. 

She was the first to break the kiss, seemingly to his surprise.

“No, you’re right,” was all she whispered against his lips before slipping from his embrace, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the small chapel. Feeling quite stupid. Deeply regretting the life decision of opening his Templar mouth. It felt a little bit like standing in a vacuum, his empty arms hanging uselessly by his side with the woman he wanted to hold walking away from him again. It was never a good time, there was always an obligation or interruption to en their time together too soon. 

His hand twitched nervously by his side, a betrayal of his own body reminding him it had been denied two things it desired now: Lyrium and her touch. He may have been happy to do without the former, less so the latter. To quell the tremor, he had to busy his hand, raising it to absently rub the spot she’d kissed below his jaw, a thoughtful caress to retain the fleeting moment. That’s when he noticed she had stopped moving. Leaning casually against the doorframe in a gesture he remembered. 

“You’re right,” she coos and he recognizes her reiteration of his own words, a sly smile spreading almost imperceptibly in the soft candlelight of the chantry. Now that she has his full attention, she makes like she has an intention of leaving, crossing to the other side of the door, but a lithe arm shoots out to swing it shut instead. He simply gapes at her as the heavy door creaks across the floor closing with a satisfying **thunk**. 

“Someone _could_ have walked in.”


	2. Build Our Altar Here

Her message is very much received, his heart hammers in tandem with his quaking hand as she closes the distance between them once more. 

“You’re the Herald of Andraste, I must be dreaming,” he starts weakly, fumbling for reasons in a battle already lost between willpower and some half-forgotten vows. 

“Even Andraste had a lover, I don’t think she minds.” His Inquisitor digs her fingers into the feathers to pull him closer. She kissed him. A light kiss, the merest brush of her lips on his, but he could feel her tremble as he slid his arms around her. “I am not whole without you.” 

Her mouth opens readily for his tongue and the kiss he returns to her is free of all reservation as he devours her with the weight of his hunger and longing. 

“Cullen,” she said weakly when his gloved hand snaked its way from her hair to her collar, the rough stitching gently grazing the soft flesh of her neck in their path. The flimsy tan undercoat’s collar yielded to him with no resistance, allowing his lips passage to her collarbone. Both of their hands work frantically at the clasps on her coat, she whispers something born of frustration and his lips meet hers once more, kissing her silent, kissing her until the modest coat gives way. As his hands find her small breasts under the fabric, he kisses her until she moans for him. 

She wanted this? He would be happy to oblige. The first time she attempted a peek at his expression, he had seemed unsure, so far away, but he was here now. His amber eyes staring down at her with the passion and certainty he felt for her. She could almost see the darkening hunger as he looked around for somewhere to gain purchase, anywhere would do at this point.

There is a clear moment in his expression when a decision is made. Her commander knocks the candles on the stone steps out of the way and leans her back slowly, firm hands on her hips and waist guiding her, covering her from lips to navel with his burning kisses. Then, he began work on the lacing of her breeches. He would have her on the altar and no power short of divine intervention would stop what she had set in motion. Wax pools on the stones surrounding them as the candles flicker and die but they are past caring. 

His hands grip the waist of her undone bottoms, pushing them roughly downwards as she fumbles at the ties on his armor with feeble fists, whispering his name into his skin. Her Commander is here and far away at the same time and her whispers are barely heard, a dim sound over the thrumming of rising blood. The job she started on the ties of his own pants is quickly finished with his practiced movements. 

She can hear his ragged breathing hitch as he pushes her bare legs apart, the leather of his gloves is cool on her skin but that is the last thing on her mind. With only a thin layer of undergarments between them, he slides his hands almost reverently up her bare skin, rubbing her gently through her smallclothes before pulling them down completely. 

“Hurry,” she was whispering now, hands reaching out to guide her lover “yes, now.”

She was gasping as he thrust into her, “my Commander, my love, yes, yes, like that, yes.” 

As she kissed him, moving with him and gripping at his soft curls, Cullen lost himself in her. She pants and arches into him; their hearts beating in time with their rhythmic motions until neither has anything left to spend. They lay in the comfort of each other’s silence, him still buried in her wetness until either can summon the desire to move.

* * *

Trevelyan can see Cullen flinch, even from behind as he wrenches the chapel door open, peering as far into the garden as he can without being seen. He makes it less than four feet out the door before freezing in place. Still rearranging her braids into some semblance of their former style, she pulls the hair pins from between her teeth to slide into her hair as she casually sidles up next to him to see what the problem is. He is in the middle of a lengthy process of turning every shade of red imaginable and she can’t help but smile as her eyes meet a very disapproving Mother Giselle sitting on the bench across the way, a single eyebrow quirked in mother hen disapproval. The Inquisitor simply grins and shrugs at the Mother, planting a kiss on her Commander’s cheek, who mumbles something about the war table and dashes off as swiftly as his tired legs will carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing smut is not my usual jam, thanks for patiently reading through my fumbling literary awkwardness.


End file.
